


still i can't get enough

by apellai



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Frottage, M/M, No Dialogue, courfeyrac is here for a second but pay no mind
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-08
Updated: 2018-07-08
Packaged: 2019-06-07 05:22:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15212111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apellai/pseuds/apellai
Summary: Eros,Enjolras thinks,is standing right in front of me.





	still i can't get enough

**Author's Note:**

> so i wanted to do something with no dialogue, because i found i rely on dialogue a lot. this is also inspired by the louvre by lorde! that's also what the title is from.

The club is dark and hot, but it’s not like it matters.

Glitter peppers Grantaire’s hair, cheeks and shoulders; an old band tee hangs off those shoulders, barely tight enough to frame his muscular chest in the most perfect way.

His eyes are closed, his features lit by blue and pink lights, the shadow of his lashes making him look like something out of a dream - his lips are parted. He’s smiling just a little. He’s not that drunk, neither is Enjolras, but they’re both just tipsy enough to join their friends on the crowded dance floor.

An arm is raised in the air, bruised fingers reaching out for what Enjolras can only imagine is a God. He wonders which God might reach out to Grantaire - it would be Eros, he thinks; only the God of love would dare to reach out to such a sublime creature.

Grantaire’s drunken tyrades are getting to Enjolras, it seems.

Enjolras is only vaguely aware of the music, the beat that Grantaire is following. He, himself, is following Grantaire, only inches away from him, so close that he can feel his breath and smell his cologne mixed with a scent that’s purely Grantaire.

He feels Courfeyrac’s back against his own, short curls tickling his exposed shoulders - good that he wore a tank top, it’s  _ hot _ in here - and can tell the other man is losing himself. Enjolras isn’t far from that, either.

The tempo changes and Grantaire opens his eyes and glances at Enjolras before letting them flutter shut again in an expression that can only be described as erotic.  _ Eros, _ Enjolras thinks, _ is standing right in front of me. _ His fingers hook into the belt loops on Grantaire’s ripped jeans and draws him close; he feels the soft gasp before Grantaire plants his hands on Enjolras' hips, where his shirt has managed to ride up just enough for Grantaire’s fingers to make contact with damp skin.

He rests his head on Grantaire’s shoulder, taking in his scent, now evermore crisp and enchanting: cologne, of course, deodorant, sweat, laundry detergent, cigarette smoke, weed, and something vaguely resembling paint or turpentine. Excellence.

The temptation to lick the patch of skin exposed to him between hair and t-shirt is too strong to resist; he resigns to just pressing a wet kiss there before breathing out onto the damp spot. Grantaire shudders, fingers digging into Enjolras' sides.

He straightens and Grantaire is staring at him something fierce; his lips shine from licking them probably moments before, his cheeks are flushed and eyes lidded. Something out of a gay porn producer’s wet dream - or Enjolras' own, if he’s being honest.

He tilts Grantaire’s chin up with one finger and tentatively presses their lips together.

Grantaire’s hands tighten even more, his fingernails pressing marks into the soft skin there. He makes a high-pitched noise and pushes into Enjolras' space, so now they’re chest-to-chest, and his arms wrap around Enjolras, almost - no, not almost, surely possessive.

Enjolras finds his own hands exploring: hair, chest, shoulder, cheek, even brushing thick eyelashes with his thumb. He eventually settles on his left hand in Grantaire’s hair, pulling just this side of painful, and his right hand hanging onto the t-shirt like he might float away.

They pull apart, and just stare at each other for a moment - Grantaire’s amber eyes are glimmering with the hues of pink and blue and violet of the neon lights around them, and with such thick, dark eyelashes, he looks like art.

Grantaire grins, bites his lip, and then dives in to bite Enjolras'. Enjolras must make some face or maybe a noise, because Grantaire laughs and rocks his hips in a way that feels  _ delightful. _

His voice is rough and low in Enjolras' ear and Enjolras tries to forget that Grantaire definitely has to get onto his tiptoes for this angle. Something filthy is whispered into Enjolras' ear, he doesn’t really catch it, but the sound sends a shiver up his spine; he pulls Grantaire into another searing kiss.

This time, when they separate, Enjolras looks around the club to find the exit. He sees Combeferre and Courfeyrac glancing at him and talking, but chooses to ignore that, in favor of dragging Grantaire out of the building.

Outside, Grantaire laughs as they hail a cab; this is part of the routine, but Enjolras has never initiated, nor has he wanted to leave so early. It’s probably not even midnight.

They resist temptation, thankfully, and don’t dry-hump in the cab on the way to Grantaire’s apartment. When they get through the door, Enjolras finds himself pinning Grantaire to the wall in the entryway, kissing and grabbing at whatever bits of skin he can find.

Grantaire takes Enjolras' hand with a breathy laugh and guides him into his bedroom.

They both throw off their shirts before climbing into Grantaire’s bed; Grantaire is laying on his back, crooked smile painting his features in mischief and lust and affection. Enjolras takes a moment to examine the features he so worships at night: the freckles and scars, the lip busted from a bar fight two days ago, darkness under his eyes despite long nights of sleep.

There’s something gentle about the look in his eyes, under layers of lust and insecurity - something warm and comforting, like hot cocoa on a snowy day.

Enjolras tries not to get too sentimental. Instead of answering Grantaire’s questioning look, he kisses him(their height difference doesn’t seem so significant here, he notices).

He moves to tear off Grantaire’s jeans, then his own, and then situates Grantaire’s legs around his waist, grinding down to the tune of Grantaire’s melodic whines. When he sits up, his fingers find Grantaire’s tattoos, on the skin barely illuminated by moonlight.

They spend quite some time like this, just rocking together, their movements as one; Enjolras swallows Grantaire’s moans as they pull each other ever closer.

At some point, Grantaire hooks his fingers under the waistband of Enjolras' boxers and tugs them down, and shortly after, does the same with his own. He takes them both in one hand, stroking languidly, pulling away to turn his head and muffle moans with his pillow.

Enjolras smiles and runs a hand through Grantaire’s hair, kissing and biting at the skin on his neck, delighting in the way that Grantaire’s grip tightens on them when he nips at the hollow of Grantaire’s throat.

He uses the hand opposite Grantaire’s to help stroke them both; Grantaire’s legs quiver, his abdomen tightening with each movement. With his free hand, he moves Grantaire’s head so they’re again facing each other, sharing breath.

Grantaire looks almost as if he’s going to cry, eyes wide and eyebrows raised, jaw slack with pleasure. His voice is raspy when sounds escape him. Enjolras dives in.

The kiss is passionate and heated; Enjolras feels emotion in everything Grantaire does with his mouth. A bite to Enjolras’ bottom lip sends lightning through his whole body.

Enjolras never cared for kissing before Grantaire. He figured it was just a means to an end - he never knew that it could be this full-body experience, that it could be something so monumental during a moment of intimacy. When Grantaire kisses him, he sees stars. He understands, now, why the kiss is always the happy ending.

Grantaire whines Enjolras’s name as he comes, tensing,  _ shivering, _ and whimpering - the sight alone sends Enjolras over the edge with him, painting his chest and breathing heavily over him.

They lay like that for a few minutes before Enjolras takes it upon himself to clean them up; he manages to find his way into Grantaire’s bathroom even in the dark. He dampens a towel with warm water and head back into Grantaire’s room.

Grantaire is barely awake, watching Enjolras through lidded eyes as he cleans up Grantaire’s chest and abdomen. The action is gentle and loving, a languid aftercare routine that nearly puts them both to sleep.

When Enjolras finishes up, he doesn’t have the energy to get up again, so he leaves the towel on Grantaire’s nightstand before pulling the covers up over the both of them. 

He kisses Grantaire once more before he falls asleep.

**Author's Note:**

> hmu on tumblr @bahorelfanclub


End file.
